


Sick

by scrub456



Series: Inksolation [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Caring Sherlock Holmes, Fanart, Fic and Art, Influenza, Inksolation, M/M, Quarantine, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sick John Watson, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:08:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23694397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/pseuds/scrub456
Summary: John falls ill.  Sherlock comes to the rescue... Kind of.An art and fic submission forInksolation Day 16.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Inksolation [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1706410
Comments: 28
Kudos: 93
Collections: Isolated Johnlock Collection, Quarantine





	Sick

"John." Sherlock held his position, hunched to eye level with the kitchen table. A pipette poised delicately in his gloved hand over a vial, he stilled his breath as a single, precarious drop of fluid slowly rolled over the edge.

"Steady," he murmured, eyes fixed on the wavering surface tension. 

A sudden explosion of electronic pop insanity interrupted the silence. Sherlock flinched. Barely. Scarcely at all. 

Three drops fell in quick succession, and the contents of the vial instantly changed color. 

"John! _John!_ " Sherlock bellowed as he tossed the pipette, and jumped to standing. His elbow connected with the vials as he reached across the table to snatch up his obnoxiously ringing mobile. With a growl he dropped the mobile in a junk drawer, slammed it shut, and turned the cold water tap on so he could rinse the chemicals from his second best white dress shirt. As well as the arm underneath it.

" _John!_ " Sherlock paused before shouting for his flatmate once more. The phone in the drawer had rung out, and started ringing again. 

"Oh, shut up!" Sherlock kicked backwards in the general direction of the drawer as he struggled with the bottle of dish soap with his gloved hands, effectively soaking his entire right side from shoulder to hip.

"For godsake!" He spilled the detergent as the mobile started ringing again. "John! John, this is your fault! Get in here!"

When no answer came, Sherlock turned with a glare towards the sitting room. "You set that horrendous ringtone, so the responsibility for…" He paused when he caught a glimpse of the flashing clock on the microwave. It was set to the wrong hour, but still managed to mark the passage of time.

Six hours. He'd been at his experiment for six hours, which meant John was seven hours into a twenty-four hour on-call shift at the hospital. His third in an entirely too short amount of time, in Sherlock's opinion. It was horribly inconvenient, and dull, and…

Sherlock cut off that line of thought before he let the notion of _worry_ manifest. The nation was in crisis. The whole world, depending on who one listened to (Sherlock had the misfortune of having to listen to a live-in doctor and the British government) was as well. It was all hands on deck as far as the NHS was concerned, and that included John.

His mobile pinged with several texts in a row, and then began ringing again. Leaving the tap running, Sherlock fumbled out of his shirt, and dropped it in a sopping heap on the worktop. He grabbed his robe from where he'd tossed it over a chair, and fished his phone from the junk drawer just as it stopped ringing. 

_John._

John never called during a shift. Sherlock nearly dropped the phone when it vibrated, indicating yet another voice message. A sharp rap on the street door interrupted his focus on trying to pull off his gloves.

"No." Shrugging into his robe, Sherlock stormed to the sitting room door and flung it open. "No! Not interested! Leave!" He nearly crashed into Mycroft in his haste.

"Brother." Mycroft looked him up and down, rolled his eyes, and nodded toward the upstairs bedroom. The nameless man in the suit behind him started toward the staircase.

"Excuse you!" Sherlock shoved past his brother and grabbed the agent by the shoulder. "Mycroft, explain." The mobile started ringing again.

_John_

Mycroft cocked an imperious brow. "Perhaps you should answer your phone for once." He swiped the screen to answer the call as Sherlock furiously shook his free hand to rid it of the glove.

"John?" He glared at Mycroft for a moment before pointing to his own bedroom with a tilt of his chin.

Mycroft smirked his understanding, and pointed the agent accompanying him down the hall.

"Hey, Sherlock." John sounded truly weary. Raw. "Uhm…"

"John," Sherlock breathed.

"Don't, uhm," John cleared his throat. "Don't panic, yeah?"

"What the _hell,_ Sherlock? I just…" John rubbed the back of his neck and lethargically dropped his hand to his side. " _What_? Why?"

"You're not well." Sherlock took a few steps nearer. John held up his hand to keep him from coming any closer.

"Sherlock," John coughed and groaned. "That's why I told you not to come. Why Mycroft was getting my stuff. I'm going to go…"

"No. No you're not _going_ anywhere other than home." Sherlock inched a bit closer.

"Sherlock, dammit." John slumped his shoulders in exhaustion. "It's too dangerous."

"It's just the flu. You… you said," Sherlock reached one hand toward John, without actually touching him. "You said it's not…"

"That may be true," John sighed, "but influenza is still dangerous. Too risky…" He coughed again, nearly doubling over. "You and Mrs. Hudson…"

"Will be fine." Sherlock reached out and took John's work bag, and the plastic bag of his street clothes, from him. "She went to spend a lovely holiday at Mycroft's expense during your first hospital shift, best not mention you were too distracted to notice her absence, and I'm going to take care of you, as you always take care of me. Besides," he rubbed a spot on his arm, "I seem to remember a very persuasive doctor fighting dirty and tricking me into a flu jab."

"I had mine too, you know." John shivered and wrapped his arms around himself.

"You've also nearly worked yourself to death trying to save the world." Sherlock pulled John against his side. "I can recall, perfectly, dozens of lectures you've given me on the merit of self care…"

"Oh christ," John groaned, even as he leaned into Sherlock's side.

Sherlock frowned as he observed John's lack of coordinated movement. He took in the glassy eyes, and flushed face under the mask Mrs. Hudson had made. He was wearing ill fitting scrubs and a grey cardigan Sherlock didn't recognize. Worst of all, John simply looked completely worn down and defeated.

"You look like hell," Sherlock murmured as he pressed his lips to John's forehead. He was frankly alarmed by the heat radiating off John.

"You're one to talk." John attempted to laugh, and only managed to cough. He waved weakly in the direction of Sherlock's attire as he slid into the waiting car Mycroft sent. If his head weren't pounding, he might have rolled his eyes at Sherlock's Belstaff thrown over his loose robe and alarmingly soggy pyjama bottoms. He had safety goggles on, one yellow kitchen glove, and his posh shoes with no socks 

"Your timing is, as always, abysmal. I was in the critical stages of an experiment, which is ruined now, thank you." He scooted into the seat next to John, and averted his gaze. "And you were… You needed me."

"You didn't have to…"

"I did." Sherlock dropped John's things at his feet and nudged John closer in order to lean against him. 

"Sherlock."

" _John._ I can't… I needed to. _Need_ to…"

"I know." John shivered and burrowed under Sherlock's arm with a groan. "Everything hurts."

"I know, love." Sherlock pushed the hair back from John's forehead and pressed another kiss there. "We're almost home."

"Just help me to bed and you can go back to your experiment." John mumbled.

"John, do you think so little of me?" Sherlock feigned injury. "Do you honestly think I'd abandon you in your convalescence?"

With a sniff, John rolled his head enough to look up at Sherlock. "No… But I do think you'd abandon a catastrophic mess if it meant distracting me from finding it."

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"It's bad, isn't it?"

"I may have left the kitchen faucet running." 

"Christ, Sherlock."

"And…" Sherlock pulled his glove off and shoved the goggles up onto his head. 

"And?"

"The contents of the refrigerator won't be salvageable."

"Oh my god." John coughed, and let his eyes fall shut.

Sherlock pulled out his mobile and sent a quick text. "Mycroft will send us supplies." 

"Someone is going to be making all of Mrs. Hudson's meals. Doing her tidying up." John patted Sherlock's knee. "Think it through next time." He shivered and tried to get closer to Sherlock.

"There won't be a next time." He tucked his arm around John. "I forbid it."

"M'kay." John huffed, then coughed.

"I'm serious, John." Sherlock attempted to sound stern, though he knew his concern was evident. "You have to get well. You're going to. I can't… I need…"

John shivered, and nodded with a groan. "Love you too, Sherlock."

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. John really does have the flu in this fic. So it's bad, but it's not pandemic bad. But Sherlock will take good care of him.
> 
> 2\. I don't know why, but I imagine John set Sherlock's ringtone to "She Blinded Me With Science," and Sherlock didn't change it because Lestrade probably bet that he would never leave it that way. ;-)


End file.
